“In her room—­at nine!”

All this was very terrible to Mr. Wrenn.  He found himself in the position of a man scheduled to address the Brewers’ Association and the W. C. T. U. at the same hour.  Valiantly he attempted: 

“Miss Nash oughta be a good person for our picnics.  She’s a regular shark for outdoor tramping.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Wrenn and I tramped most all night in England one time,” said Istra, innocently.

The eyes of the table asked Mr. Wrenn what he meant by it.  He tried to look at Nelly, but something hurt inside him.

“Yes,” he mumbled.  “Quite a long walk.”

Miss Mary Proudfoot tried again: 

“is it pleasant to study in Paris?  Mrs. Arty said you were an artist.”

“No.”

Then they were all silent, and the rest of the dinner Mr. Wrenn alternately discussed Olympia Johns with Istra and picnics with Nelly.  There was an undertone of pleading in his voice which made Nelly glance at him and even become kind.  With quiet insistence she dragged Istra into a discussion of rue de la Paix fashions which nearly united the shattered table and won Mr. Wrenn’s palpitating thankfulness.

After dessert Istra slowly drew a plain gold cigarette-case from a brocade bag of silvery gray.  She took out a match and a thin Russian cigarette, which she carefully lighted.  She sat smoking in one of her best attitudes, pointed elbows on the table, coolly contemplating a huge picture called “Hunting the Stag” on the wall behind Mr. Wrenn.

Mrs. Arty snapped to the servant, “Annie, bring me my cigarettes.”  But Mrs. Arty always was penitent when she had been nasty, and—­though Istra did not at once seem to know that the landlady had been nasty—­Mrs. Arty invited her up to the parlor for after-dinner so cordially that Istra could but grant “Perhaps I will,” and she even went so far as to say, “I think you’re all to be envied, having such a happy family.”

“Yes, that’s so,” reflected Mrs. Arty.

“Yes,” added Mr. Wrenn.

And Nelly:  “That’s so.”

The whole table nodded gravely, “Yes, that’s so.”

“I’m sure”—­Istra smiled at Mrs. Arty—­“that it’s because a woman is running things.  Now think what cat-and-dog lives you’d lead if Mr. Wrenn or Mr.—­Popple, was it?—­were ruling.”

They applauded.  They felt that she had been humorous.  She was again and publicly invited up to the parlor, and she came, though she said, rather shortly, that she didn’t play Five Hundred, but only bumblepuppy bridge, a variety of whist which Mr. Wrenn instantly resolved to learn.  She reclined ("reclined” is perfectly accurate) on the red-leather couch, among the pillows, and smoked two cigarettes, relapsing into “No?"’s for conversation.

Mr. Wrenn said to himself, almost spitefully, as she snubbed Nelly, “Too good for us, is she?” But he couldn’t keep away from her.  The realization that Istra was in the room made him forget most of his melds at pinochle; and when Miss Proudfoot inquired his opinion as to whether the coming picnic should be held on Staten island or the Palisades he said, vaguely, “Yes, I guess that would be better.”